The Character Code
by Freydris
Summary: Gary Gray is pulled from her own little world to unwittingly help out a teenage elf finish his story. Unfortunately, that's not as easy as it sounds. The whole elven population is snapping at their heels, and the noay humans aren't really helping either.
1. Chapter 1

The Character Code

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 **Prologue – Words from the Author**

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Gary Gray was just another character amongst the hundreds I had dreamed up. I'm not going to lie.

Short, chubby, and barely out of childhood. These words describe Gary as a whole. There is _nothing_ special about her, and as clichéd as the statement was just now, the truth it was.

While I was writing down the shaky outlines of "The Character Code" on left over intermediate paper from sophomore year, I also pilfered through old notebooks and sketch pads. I thought I had grown out the fantasy genre when I was thirteen, but with the "Lord of the Rings" dragging me back into a new world of elves, dwarves, war and very very vivid culture porn, I exasperatedly realized that this part of fiction wasn't quite done with me yet.

I leafed through my younger self's scrawny, twig-thin handwriting, a striking contrast to my now wide, fancy, and loopy penmanship, and found an out-of-place plot in the middle of the tales of swooning knights and murderous sirens.

Well, _if_ you could call it a plot.

More like, notes that could have led to a story.

It was, unlike the rest of its brethren, the story of a fledgling school. I discovered—or rather, rediscovered—young, discontinued little Gary Gray there as a supporting character, that wallpaper kid who appeared ever two chapters or so, bringing common sense into the drama of first-time dating and horror-house haunting.

In truth, she fit in more in a modern, middle school setting, perhaps as that uncomfortable best friend who hated the P.E. teacher's gutsy guts, or the silent girl in the mean-girls group. But I looked at the rough sketches of her solemn face and her irritated scowl, and found that I was curious. Could she work in a medieval, fantastic setting?

I scanned samples of her painstakingly little dialogue, and they read:

"Stop crying." She grumbled, watching Adrian through the unruly tangles of her dark hair. Adrian wondered if she'd ever heard of a comb.

"I _can't_ stand crying," she warned him moodily, glaring. And when he sniffled and wiped the tears from his cheeks, Gary—wasn't that a funny name to call a girl?—impatiently crossed her arms and sighed. "Good. But seriously, if you don't even like her, why did you date her in the first place?"

"Because I was popular, and she was popular." Was Adrian's baffled response, quiet and miserable.

She gave him the driest look anyone could muster in that corner of the United States and closed her eyes, praying for patience. She took a deep breath and sighed again. "Well, we both have lips, but you don't see me trying to kiss you." She pointed out irritably.

"You don't mince words, do you?" Adrian growled, stung by her insensitivity.

She suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Look, if I offend you," he rolled his eyes at this, and the corners of her lips quirked up, "Which I clearly do, I'm sorry." She shrugged. "But personally? I think you're so upset not because she broke up with you, but because she broke up with you in front of everyone."

With that said, she shouldered her way past him, pursing her lips. "And stop running to me when you want a shoulder to cry on. I'm not your damn therapist." She grumbled.

There should have been no connection to "The Character Code". Dating was a foreign concept in a Middle Earth setting. That attitude was simply out of place, either. But while doodling little elves on the draft, I couldn't help but wonder, "What if?"

Could she work in a medieval, fantastic setting?

I could have forsaken her and instead sent for another. And there were certainly many choices.

Aistacariel, the world-weary warrior who once conquered dragons and armies of dark spawn. She could have easily assimilated into the dark, gritty atmosphere of the Lord of the Rings. Many ideas came to fruit with her as my Muse, the protagonist. A battle worthy of the epics, a love story discreet but tragic, an exploration of the different races!

There was also Jet, the intelligent, emotionally-stunted young scientist who was too efficient for his own good. He would have found the secret to the elvish immortality, hobbit luck, and dwarven greed. He reeked of angst and emotional constipation.

And, I could even have chosen that old maid Elarinya, the beautiful, too perfect orphan my 11-year-old imagination had aggressively wished to life so many years ago.

But for some unknown reason, I bypassed the fierce, tired Aistacariel, the cold, calculating Jet, the mysterious, warm Elarinya, and looked at little Gary Gray. I like to think that I met her accusing gray eyes and offered my hand.

I could _almost_ hear her disgruntled voice. "I don't have a choice, do I?" She'd ask.

I blinked, startled by the sudden excitement that gripped me. I was smiling like mad, and my parents—who were watching the news and arguing about what to have for dinner—asked me what I was thinking about. I answered with a vague shrug and picked up my pen to write.

No, no, the story simply wouldn't make any sense if I forcibly shoved her into the workings of a Middle Earthean society. There would be no possible explanation to how she ended up an independent, strongly-willed young girl. So what if...?

I recalled the thousands of girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth stories and grimaced. Should I...?

I didn't want to explain a science phenomenon for her arrival, or a prophecy. I _hated_ prophecies. Grumbling, I stewed on the HOW and flipped through a few more drafts of her previous story. They read:

Adrian gazed out of the window, and his eyes sought the cheerleaders practicing on the field. His chest hurt when he saw Katie, his girlfriend.

Well, his ex-girlfriend now.

He stopped and paused, just forlornly _watching_ her amidst the sea of walking students, and only looked away when he heard a voice groan. He turned to see his, well, his schoolmate (since they obviously weren't friends) Gary stomping away, clutching her books.

"Author, make him stop!" She was hissing.

I couldn't help but giggle at that; she had a penchant for breaking fourth walls, and-

Wait. WAIT.

"I got it!" I squealed, and my parents gave me their odd, long-suffering looks again. Not paying any mind to them, I took a pencil, sharpened it, and began copying my old sketches of her. When I finished with a full-body image so that I could describe her well-enough, I pursed my lips and nodded, satisfied.

"Do you make it a habit to talk back to authors?" I muttered to myself curiously, giving her sketch a second once-over. I thought of that boy she had talked to in that first story—Adrian—and briefly searched something up on Google.

With my characters set, and a breaking-the-fourth-wall thing in mind, I finally picked up my phone and opened Notes.

So many plots to pluck up, so many tales to tell.

I prayed for inspiration, sneaked in a few words asking for world peace (because come on, someone has to do it), and began to type. How do I start Gary Gray's adventures in Middle Earth?

I hollered for that old rhyme book my sister and I enjoyed as children, and my younger sister grumpily tossed it to me, not caring that the hard cover dug into my stomach.

"There was a little girl who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead;

When she was good, she was very, very good,

And when she was bad she was horrid."

A verse from the Mother Goose.

"I hope that doesn't refer to me." Gary Gray sulked.

And a sassy quip to shatter the Fourth Wall.

Gary Gray was just another character amongst the hundreds I had dreamed up. I'm not going to lie.

Short, chubby, and barely out of childhood. These words describe Gary as a whole. There is _nothing_ special about her, and as clichéd as the statement was just now, the truth it was.

But I think she'd do some good in this story, and the story would do her some good.

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	2. Chapter 2

The Character Code

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 **Chapter One – Stranger and Stranger**

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Gary Gray, like all of the race of man, was born.

Before we continue from there, you must first understand what being _born_ entails.

Human life (in the loosest sense) begins when a sperm cell and an egg cell meet in a phenomenon called fertilization. Shortly after fertilization, the fertilized cell travels towards the womb where it continues its several few months of development. After give or take thirty-six weeks, it ends its captivity with a break in the amniotic sac, releasing fluids and becoming the origin of the dreaded three words, "My water broke." The new human then exits to Earth through a torn vagina.

Gary Gray wasn't exactly human—but was a human, it's all rather confusing—so she wasn't born like that. Her creation involved no cross-fertilization, no sacs of any kind, and certainly not torn vaginae. It was simpler, more primitive, with less gore and blood.

It took only one leap: from not existing, and then to existing. Hurrah, hurrah, someone toss the little cuts of colored paper!

She was born like that. But without the little cuts of colored paper.

Now, like all human beings, Gary had memories, too. Her earliest memory was when she had been created. Understandably, infants wouldn't want to remember the trip from a woman's uterus to the outside world, so naturally blocked all those bad, bad memories, but Gary's leap to life was not traumatic, thus memorable.

The glorious feeling of existing began some time during a particularly cold December, just approximately forty-eight hours short of a wonderful Christmas day. Her Author was playing around with an old laptop, surfing the Internet and glancing at romantic one-shots. Freydris—that was her Author's pseudonym—wasn't a very feminine teenager, but she was still a girl by heart, and said blood-pumping organ fluttered with glee at happy endings and cute tales of unconventional romances.

And existing? Existing was an exhilarating feeling Gary never wanted to give up.

She wasn't really real, and she wasn't really alive, wasn't really a "she" but rather part of a collective "they", but what mattered was that she—they— _was_ (or rather, _were_ ). They existed. It's a bit difficult to explain, but they _were_ in the way feelings also _were_. Not real, not alive, but _are_. And like other feelings, they grew and festered like a wound, gradually becoming _are_ in the way of hope, in the way of thoughts, in the way of words, and finally, in the way of words caged in paper.

Written. And in a sense, real.

And then the "they" broke apart and divided. Gary Gray became Gary Gray, an individual "she" with a history, a personality, and an appearance to call her own. Gary Gray became a 12-year-old girl in some school that didn't seem to hold class at all, appearing every now and then to part with (dry and unappreciated) words of wisdom for passing woe-is-me schoolmates.

"Adrian's so stupid," she grumbled, watching the most notorious couple of the year break up in the middle of the cafeteria. Some angry, heartfelt, and despairing words (read: barbaric, bird-like screeches) were exchanged between the two, and the terrible row finally ended with Katie sashayed away with a flip of her blond hair, and Adrian was left seething in his hurt. Snarling, he stormed off, and Gary thought to herself, "Woah, that's a lot of rage for a 13-year-old."

Her limbs began moving, and she sighed, realizing that she had to go to him for the Plot. What was Author thinking?

Gary dropped by whenever Adrian Foster was upset, again and again, and that was her role, her purpose. That was her life.

As sudden as her "birth" was her "death".

But it wasn't really death. She didn't die or anything. Death had nothing to do with a dramatic, romantic middle school story, unless when it had to claim really old teachers.

The world just stopped.

Well, her world, anyway.

Everyday, she woke up to the same day, the same events, the same dialogue.

"Adrian's so stupid," she'd grumble again and again, watching the couple break up for the fiftieth time in the middle of the cafeteria. Some angry, heartfelt, and despairing words (read: it evolved into pterodactyl screeches by now) were exchanged between the two, like always, but still, Katie sashayed away with a flip of her blond hair, and Adrian was left seething in his hurt. Again. Snarling, he stormed off, and Gary thought to herself again, "Woah, that's a lot of rage for a 13-year-old."

Her limbs began moving, and she sighed again, realizing that she had to go to him again for the Plot. What was her Author thinking?

Was Author even there?

Stuck. Frozen in a time loop. Her story skidded to an alarming halt. The book was closed, the ending never written. It was tucked away in some corner to gather dust.

Years later, it was found.

Gary Gray was, understandably, _furious_. Adrian Foster, Katie Hopkins, her friends, her teachers—they all were angry. How dare Freydris show her face again, looking thoughtfully at Gary Gray like she planned to continue the story—wait, what?

Freydris peered down at them curiously, but her eyes were solely on Gary. Suddenly, she blinked and smiled the most heart-warming smile in the whole universe, and Gary's hate abruptly evaporated. Gary's character had a mother, a workaholic version of Luna Lovegood, but Freydris was Mother—Author. Capital initials and all.

And then the world exploded exploded in lights and color and tingling nerves. She was pulled, lifted, flying, soaring, and for the life of her, she could not resist.

"There was a little girl who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead;

When she was good, she was very, very good,

And when she was bad she was horrid."

"I hope that doesn't refer to me." Gary Gray sulked. She looked around her and frowned, blinking away the spots of color and light. The sudden change of environment was all rather, well, sudden, but it wasn't like she could complain to Freydris.

She _could_ , but the Author wouldn't really listen to her. Such was the way life worked for a character, and it was no different for Gary. A puppet with strings.

"Well, this isn't a city." She mused, crossing her arms.

And true to her words, she wasn't in a suburban city where square buildings ruled the sky and cemented streets, the earth, where cars and people populated the roads and never made them look empty.

Instead, she was in a forest with tall, towering trees that looked like they were a thousand times older than she was, and dead, dried leaves blanketed the floor like a pretty carpet, appearing as if they could soften any fall. She was in a dress she had never seen before, rich in velvety red and lime green and white, with tough flats for shoes and a dark pack strapped to her back.

Freydris appeared to her as a ghost-like figure, only a few feet away. The ground wasn't even bothered by her sudden appearance. No tracks, no rustling. Gary screamed, surprised. She held a hand to her chest, calming her heart. "What the heck?" She gasped, furrowing her eyebrows. "Warn a girl next time, will you?"

Freydris wasn't looking at her. She was looking at another direction.

"The Plot's there?" Gary asked uncomfortably, peering into the dense clump of trees. Freydris made a face and made the shooing-an-animal-away motion with her hands, mouthing encouraging words the character couldn't hear, but could understand as clear as day. Gary immediately felt her calves tense up, and without her consent, her feet moved and began to put steps one after the other.

Author-character communication was rather odd. It was like seeing your friend purse her lips, and you just automatically make up her voice in your mind and "hear" her speak without her actually saying anything. But it was what worked.

"I've been doing the same scene for years, you know." She told the older girl irritably, scratching the back of her neck. The leaves crunched beneath her feet as she stiffly traveled. "I'm a bit rusty with this whole story-telling."

Freydris smiled comfortingly and watched her go like some sort of wraith—like a motherly ghost. The next moment, she was gone.

"Great." Gary muttered to herself, frowning. She faced the direction she was walking towards and blanched. "That was really helpful."

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Walk, she had gestured. But how far? Gary had been walking for hours.

"'The plot is there?' I ask." She muttered to herself as she ducked a drooping tree branch, swatting flies from her face and arms. The dratted things never seemed to get enough of her. She was never going out camping ever. The mosquitoes were a, pardon the pun, pest.

She mimed Freydris' shooing motion and muttered high-pitched gibberish, pitching her voice high and nasal, trying to imitate what she imagined as the Author's voice. "Can't answer a ruddy question properly, can't even point to a correct direction. What did I get myself into?"

She angrily pushed past another branch, getting a mouthful of long leaves and twigs and her own, dark, untied hair while she was at it. She spat them out and cringed in disgust. Her legs were aching. The flats weren't doing wonders for her weak feet, and she felt sticky and hot and sweat all over. She wanted a bath. And a gosh-darned town.

As she trudged on, the branch swung back and smacked straight into a peacefully existing beehive above her head. Startled, Gary looked up, up, up, and released a shrill scream, covering her head with her hands. The fat hive swung wildly back and forth for several tense moments, but didn't fall. Its residents, however, were very displeased.

Huge, striped bees the size of her fist flew under and swarmed her in hoards, and she took that as her cue to run.

"AAAAHH!"

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Somewhere not too far away, a boy kneeling by a stream looked up sharply, hearing the ghastly wailing. It didn't sound orcish, he thought, so it was probably human. Abruptly, he stood and dusted his breeches, pocketing his newly filled flask of water. Closing his eyes, he listened closely again.

"Get away from me!"

There. The voice rang and echoed all around, thrown from one tree to another, but it was the loudest east. He unsheathed the dagger that had so far protected him from harm, and briskly began walking. His ears, far more sensitive than that of any man, were ringing as he followed the noise's source.

"Someone help!"

His brisk walking became jogging, and then before long he was sprinting, leaping over fallen logs. The screaming never stopped, panicked and alarmed and hysterical, accompanied by the pounding of footsteps, and strangely enough, aggressive buzzing. He pondered about that, but got distracted because he didn't see the dark head heading his way until it bowled him over and tackled him to the ground.

Gary screeched, recovering instantly. "I'm sorry!" She apologized, stuttering right into the other person's bewildered face. Her hair was in his mouth. She dispassionately thought of getting a new hair cut some time in the future. Her hair was getting on everyone's mouths lately, it seemed. "But we gotta go! A beehive from he-" She paused and blinked, and pulled back, ripping the strands of her hair free from his mouth. "Adrian?" She heaved, unknowingly digging her elbow into his chest. He grunted in pain. "What are you doing here?"

"I beg your pardon?" 'Adrian' asked, glaring up at her. She lay on top of him, awkwardly resting all of her weight against his torso, and he was rapidly becoming short of breath. Not to mention, her elbow was rather sharp. "Can you—oomph, kindly, please roll off me?" He wheezed, trying to push her off, manners be damned.

"Oh!" Gary exclaimed. She had the grace to look embarrassed before she scrambled off him, accidentally landing one last blow to his thigh with her knee. He grimaced and bit his tongue, keeping the hurt gasp in.

She staggered to her feet and straightened the front of her impractical dress. Green-emboldened skirts swished around her ankles. "Sorry! Sorry! Are you hurt? I didn't mean to make you my landing pad. I wasn't looking where I was going! I was-ah!"

'Adrian' looked up at her shout, and saw her ducking from an aerial assault. "Bees?" He asked, bemused and irritated. He stood and took a step back, tucking away the knife in his hands. She was lucky she hadn't landed on it.

"No time! Run!" She squealed, already rushing past him. The boy twisted around and took off after her, thoughts whirling in his head. Was she...?

"How do you plan to keep them away?" He shouted, weaving through a little-distanced group of trees. She was far clumsier than he was—she had managed to slam into a couple of trunks and had stumbled upon protruding roots, but her speed was something impressive.

She didn't look back at him. "I read from somewhere that if you run far enough they'll give up at some point!"

"That's your plan?" He asked incredulously. When she didn't give a verbal response (but oh, did she run faster), he huffed and unclipped a compartment of his pack. As he continued to sprint he pulled out his supply of blankets. He met her pace and tossed the blanket at her. "Here! Cover yourself!"

"Oh my God, you are a God-send! Halleluja—wait, over here!" She was pulling him all of a sudden, and he almost ran into her as a result. Gritting his teeth, he tried to show his displeasure, but she was looking at anything but him, struggling to cover herself with the handspun cloth.

They dived into the underbrush (his knees were going to feel that for days) and ran through a thicker enclave of shrubs. "Half a mile!" He heard her pant desperately. "Half a darn mile and we're free! Please don't be killer bees, please don't be killer bees!"

Maybe he shouldn't have followed the noise.

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"Are you feeling dizzy? Ill?" Gary asked the boy, collapsing against the small cave's rocky interior. She slid down and held up both her hands. She had a couple of stingers protruding from her arm.

"No." He replied solemnly, shaking his head. He sat down across from her and pulled out a small knife. Gary tried not to feel too nervous. "And you shouldn't, as well. But we should removed those."

"Can't we use fingers?" She squeaked, out of breath. Her eyelashes fluttered to a close. "I'm pretty sure the knife isn't necessary."

"If you squeeze the stingers, they'll only pump more venom into your bloodstream. I will be careful."

Gary frowned and opened her eyes. She looked at him strangely. "Alright. But if I start screaming, the knife goes into the pit and won't ever come back out." She threatened.

The boy had the gal to look amused. Perhaps it was because it wasn't his arm they were about to use a knife on. Gary made a face at him as he walked over towards her. She reluctantly held out her arm. Nervously thrumming with energy, she looked away and concentrated on some point in the distance.

" _Halt_!" came a sudden shout from the mouth of the cave, and Gary shrieked. The boy flinched, and the knife sunk into Gary's arm. She stared at it and shrieked some more. "Get it out, get it out, get it out!" She wailed, gripping his arm and almost crushing it inside her fist.

Curses flew from the boy's mouth as he slid the knife out, but by then, a stream of blood was already soaking Gary's dress.

"Will you stop your infernal screaming?!" He snapped, finally fed up.

Gary stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry," she snarled back. "Were you the one who just got stabbed?"

He rolled his eyes as he groped around for bandages. "I did not stab you. I sliced you."

Her voice was borderline hysterical. "Blood belongs inside the body, not out!" She protested heartily, laughter bubbling out of her throat. "So it's still the same! Dumbass!" Her lower lip trembled. "Oh my God, I can't believe you made me bleed. And we've hardly known each other for, like, an hour."

He gave her a blank look, and slipped a stray strand of dark hair behind his ear.

His pointed ears.

"You led me to killer bees." He was saying.

She remembered the stingers still embedded in her arm. And Santa's Elves. "I'm bleeding, and a pin-cushion for bee-stuff thorn-ass. And you have pointed ears." She summarized. "I hate this world!" She moaned after a pause, rubbing her face with her unharmed limb.

A third voice interrupted their tirade. "It seems like we've been forgotten."

Gary and the boy looked up and squinted into the dim light. Silhouettes of tall, fae-like beings stood at the mouth of the cave, bows deceptively lowered. The boy's eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. Gary sent him a panicked, what-is-going-on-oh-man look, and squeezed his hand. "What's-"

"What are two adolescents doing this far in Rivendell?" The same voice asked, drawling in a low, clipped, smooth tone. "Drawing all the attention in one place with your awful noises, too."

His companions shared amused looks. Gary had a distinct feeling that they were being bullied.

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